


lucky number seven

by frankoceansmoonriver



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Copious drinking, Gay Bucky Barnes, M/M, and maybe is just a little slutty, brief mentions of steve, bucky has a nice time for once, bucky has a vacation, bucky smokes a joint at one point, post Endgame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-20
Updated: 2019-08-20
Packaged: 2020-09-19 00:02:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20321731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frankoceansmoonriver/pseuds/frankoceansmoonriver
Summary: He stays in Prague three days and does not speak to anyone. He wanders the streets. He looks at families together, at couples, at people just trying to make it home. Bucky doesn’t know what home is supposed to look like for him.Or, the one where Bucky goes to find himself in Europe and out west in North America, and then finds a life back in Brooklyn with Sam Wilson.





	lucky number seven

**Author's Note:**

> please heed the tags of this fic, because while i'm joking a little, and this is very much a sambucky fic, this is also largely a character study of bucky if you will, because i got carried away.

_Start here: a body without a name._

Tim O’Brien, The Things They Carried

He hadn’t lied when he said he was fine with it. He had decided a long time ago that Steve would be better without him, so telling him he’d be fine and that he should go hadn’t even been a lie.

Sam acted like it was fine. No sweat. He went about his days as usual, like nothing had even happened. Maybe he was fine. Who knew.

Bucky spent four days in Steve’s apartment in Brooklyn. He took note of everything the man had kept around. He found apples and pears on the kitchen counter and leftover Indian in the fridge. Steve never was very good in the kitchen.

He finds coffee and white rice and a small selection of tea in the cabinets. In the living room he finds records and DVDs and three pairs of very worn running shoes. In the bedroom he finds drawings of himself in charcoal. In one of them he is smiling, and he does not enjoy looking at it. He finds drawings of Sam. He finds drawings of Carter’s mouth and another of the back of her head, hair windswept. He decides not to feel bitter and puts the drawings away.

Steve has a lot of money. It’s all from before the snap, of course, and now with everyone back it’s useful again. Bucky figures, hell, Steve ain’t around to use it. He takes cash, credit cards, and a small duffle bag. He buys himself a small selection of new clothes. He buys a plane ticket to Prague for no reason at all. It’s just a place he never went to with Steve.

He finds a quiet coffee shop on a street corner. He rests his hands against the mug and lets the warmth be of some comfort. He doesn’t know the last time someone touched him. He thinks it was Sam, after they left Steve on that fucking bench. Sam had hugged him, Bucky is fairly certain. He had just been so out of it. He had wandered home (Steve’s home) and had crawled into bed (Steve’s bed) and now he’s here, in a city he has been to twice before. The last time he was here he killed a woman with blonde hair and grey eyes in a small hotel room. She had gotten lipstick on his metal hand where she had tried to bite him before he snapped her neck.

He knows the language like he knows fifteen others. He doesn’t recall learning them, he just had the knowledge drilled into him over decades. He shivers and grips the mug tighter.

He stays in Prague three days and does not speak to anyone. He wanders the streets. He looks at families together, at couples, at people just trying to make it home. Bucky doesn’t know what home is supposed to look like for him. He used to think it looked like soft blond hair and strong, steady hands. It had, at one point, looked like skinny arms and dopey ears and laughter. All the time laughter. They were poor as dirt and happy because they had each other.

Bucky is so fucking sick of thinking about him.

/

Bucky goes to Paris next. They were there together, sure, but it might as well be a different city, what with how loud and beautiful it is now. It had been beautiful in ’44 too, but it was beautiful in a haunting way. Now Paris is alive again. Bucky buys strawberries and cigarettes and sits in a park, smoking and licking juice off his fingers.

He wears a glove over his metal hand despite how warm the day is. No one seems to find it strange.

The nicotine feels good, and the ritual of smoking comes right back to him. This is nice. Cigarettes may not be good for him but he’s been pumped with serum so it’s probably fine and even if it is harmful he isn’t sure he cares much. He’s loved cigarettes since he was a teenager. They are a comfort and something that is his and his alone. Steve couldn’t smoke on account of his asthma and never had during the war.

He’s doing it again: making things about Steve. Bucky shuts his eyes and takes a long drag off his cigarette.

Two young girls share bread and cheese a few feet ahead of him. They laugh, sounding high pitched and tight. Bucky does not feel lonely. He feels empty. He wonders if they are the same thing.

He ties his hair up tight at the center of his skull, off his neck and away from his eyes. He goes to find a Parisian bar.

The bar is dark and crowded. Bucky orders whiskey neat and downs two in the time span of twenty minutes. He stares at his empty glass and listens to the language. He doesn’t think about Dernier teaching the rest of them dirty words in French. He goes outside to smoke.

He leans against the brick wall and takes his cigarettes out of the pocket of his jacket. He flicks his lighter a handful of times and realizes it’s out of juice. He tries twice more with the same results and then slumps against the wall.

“Need a light?” A soft voice asks in French to his right. Bucky turns.

A man with red hair and freckles strewn across his face cocks an eyebrow. His jaw is strong and his smile is warm and Bucky blinks a few times, slowly recalling the feeling of desire towards a stranger.

_I find him attractive, _Bucky thinks, trying to shake the fuzzy feeling in his head. _I used to find all sorts of men attractive all the time. _

Bucky nods and the man pulls out his zippo. He presses his thumb down and a flame appears. Bucky pulls, cigarette between his teeth. He grunts out his thanks as he inhales and feels the nicotine zip right down the entire length of him.

“I’m Gio,” the man says, and extends his hand. Bucky offers his flesh hand. They shake hands and Gio’s grip is strong. His knuckles are calloused and rough.

Bucky thinks about giving a fake name. He thinks about bolting. Instead he says, “James.”

Gio lights his own cigarette and leans against the wall with Bucky. “Can I buy you a drink James?”

“Okay,” Bucky says, voice slow and thick with smoke. The French is coming back easy.

They finish their cigarettes and head back inside. The room is even more crowded now. The music is loud and the lights are dim, and Bucky has to shoulder past people to get back to the bar.

They order, Gio pays, and they lean against the bar, elbows knocking together.

Gio’s voice is deep but when he speaks it’s with purpose, smooth and easy. Freckles run down his wrists and hands and Bucky enjoys watching his fingers dance as he talks, his words becoming larger with each movement.

This man has no idea who he is, and the thought is thrilling.

“Are you in Paris long?” Gio asks.

“No. Not long. Only a handful of days.”

“Then I had better show you a good time and all that Paris has to offer.” Gio has a playful smile spread across his face. Bucky has to turn away to laugh, a blush creeping hot up his neck.

“And I’m having such a nice time already,” Bucky says. It’s been a long time since someone has flirted with him. He used to be very good at flirting. Now he tries and is stumbling through it.

Gio doesn’t seem to mind the lack of grace. He licks his lips when he replies “But we’re just getting started.”

It’s not so surprising that Bucky stays with Gio at the bar until closing time. Gio tells him that he’s an architect. He tells stories about his time in Italy. He does most of the heavy lifting in conversation but it works because Bucky really is interested. And he likes Gio’s voice a lot.

Last call is announced and Gio leads them outside. They share a cigarette again. When Bucky puts the cigarette out on his boot heel, Gio puts a finger against Bucky’s chin and then kisses him.

It’s Bucky’s first kiss since ’43. He has wanted so much since then. Even before his last time, he hardly ever got to have what he really wanted. It was always quick and in the dark and now there is a very handsome young man with hazel eyes and freckles down his arms, kissing Bucky in full view. They aren’t hidden. It’s only dark because it happens to be very late at night. Gio kisses slow and with purpose, like how he speaks. It’s so very, very good and Bucky is almost embarrassed when he groans into it, but he’s not.

“Do you want to come home with me James?” Gio asks softly.

“Yes,” Bucky says, and he must sound so gone already because Gio is smiling a little wicked and a little joyous. Bucky wants to kiss him again to wipe that smirk off his face. 

As they make their way back to Gio’s place, Gio takes Bucky’s flesh hand and laces their fingers together. Now, Gio asks questions.

_Why are you in Paris? What do you do? Do you want a nightcap? _

_On a whim. Ex-military. No. _

They don’t discuss the snap. They don’t discuss if Gio was in the soul stone too or if he had to wait for everyone to return, probably thinking no one would ever come back. They don’t discuss if they lost someone. It doesn’t matter right now.

Bucky’s hand is warm in Gio’s.

Gio unlocks the door to his building. His door is down the hall. “This way,” he says, though he’s not let go of Bucky’s hand and Bucky is willingly being pulled in any direction.

Once inside Gio’s apartment, he lets go of Bucky and turns on a few lights. The soft yellow glow of the apartment makes Bucky warm all over, and when Gio turns to look at him, Bucky can already feel the desire filling him.

Gio wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck. He kisses him softly. “Do you want music?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Bucky says, so Gio doesn’t move away, and the only sound made is the sound of Bucky’s jacket being unzipped and falling to the floor, and the little moan that escapes him when Gio kisses his neck.

Gio’s hands are sweet and they travel everywhere. They go down Bucky’s spine bones and land gently in the crook of his elbow. When one of Gio’s hands crawls up Bucky’s bare stomach and towards his left arm, Bucky retracts.

“I’m sorry,” Gio says, and pulls both hands away. “Are you okay?”

“Fine. I’ve got a bad arm.”

“Oh?”

“Remember how I said I used to be in the military? My left side isn’t a pretty sight.”

“Okay. Where shouldn’t I touch?” Gio says, gently placing a hand back on Bucky’s shoulder.

“Just the left arm,” Bucky says. He shouldn’t have allowed all this without taking the arm off, but it’s too late now.

Gio doesn’t question it. Bucky leaves his shirt on and Gio runs a hand over his bare stomach.

“Do you want to fuck me?” Gio asks. He runs his teeth over the pulse point at Bucky’s neck.

“Yes,” Bucky says.

Bucky takes Gio to bed and he only shakes a little. He rolls a condom on and it’s been so long he almost starts laughing as he does it. But Gio is sweet and makes lovely sounds. Bucky loses himself and starts to moan and curse in English, the feeling of another man around him again after so long almost too much to bear.

“Oh, American?” Gio says softly against Bucky’s clavicle. Bucky laughs.

“Shit. Yeah,” Bucky continues in English, not feeling particularly married to carrying on in French anyway.

“I like it. Your voice. You’re very beautiful James,” Gio says, and the way he’s looking up at Bucky is absurd. _No one’s ever called me that before, _Bucky wants to say. Instead he bites down on Gio’s shoulder and doesn’t stop moving until Gio calls his name out twice.

When it’s over, they lay in bed for a while, just breathing. Bucky eventually gets up to use the bathroom, and when he comes back into the bedroom he begins to pull his discarded clothing back on.

“Do you want to stay?” Gio asks, propping himself up on an elbow. His hair is sticking up on one side, and Bucky knows he’s responsible. He smiles and shrugs.

“Do you want me to stay?”

Gio rolls over and reaches for the pack of smokes on the side table. “Why don’t you just stay for a cigarette, hm?”

So Bucky does. Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and they smoke in relative silence. At one point, Gio comes close and kisses Bucky, tongue curious and searching. Bucky finishes his cigarette.

“It’s not to do with you,” he clarifies, realizing immediately how ridiculous it sounds. “It’s just best if I go.”

“Of course,” Gio insists. He smiles at Bucky from his pillow. “It was a lovely evening James.”

“Yeah,” Bucky agrees. “It really was.”

Bucky leaves the building. He spends an hour walking back to his hotel room. On the way back he smokes three cigarettes and can’t stop thinking of the feeling of Gio’s hands in his hair. It had been so stunningly good to simply be a person in the world.

Bucky gets to his room around five am. He wakes again around ten. He realizes he had not thought of Steve once all evening.

/

He isn’t sure why he picks Sweden. It’s the flight number more than anything else. It’s like blindly throwing a dart or rolling dice. He doesn’t think there’s a reason to anything he’s doing.

It’s the beginning of a mild spring when Bucky’s feet hit the soil of Stockholm. He rents a room and never leaves it during the day and prowls around the city at night. He drinks a lot of beer and eats a lot of fish. His thoughts grow darker and darker so he makes himself go outside during the day. The skies are mostly grey so it doesn’t help much, but it helps a little.

After two weeks he finds himself in a nightclub. The lights flash yellow, blue, and purple, and each person before him weaves in and out of existence, their movements pulsing and scattered. He looks some of them in the eye.

He drinks vodka and thinks about the little spider. He hates that she’s dead now, and that he is still here, relatively unchanged in age. He thinks that all of his joints should ache terribly, and that his hair should be falling out, or at least turning grey.

He gets too drunk too quickly. He moves across the dance floor and lets people touch him. Sometimes he touches back. His eyes are only half open and he thinks it was probably a mistake to come here, but pushes his hair out of his eyes and lets his body react to the music. He often forgets he still has a body. He used to be very good at dancing.

He is covered in sweat and someone else’s liquor. He wants to take his jacket off but can’t, too afraid someone will notice the feel of the metal under their hands. He leaves the crowd instead. In the bathroom he splashes water on his face and then presses his forehead to the cool tile.

“You okay?”

Bucky turns. The man is small and probably only around twenty two or three. His hair is dark and curly and his eyes are huge. He speaks in English. He asks again, and Bucky drunkenly watches the soft pink mouth move in the fluorescent lighting.

“Yes,” Bucky says, and immediately starts laughing. He hasn’t been okay in a very long time. Has he ever been okay? He doesn’t know.

The young man laughs too. “Are you sure?”

Bucky sighs and slumps against the bathroom wall. “I’m sure.”

“I saw you out there you know.”

“Saw me where?”

“_Dancing_,” he says, more insistent.

Bucky laughs again but it’s less maniacal. “I’m sure that was quite something.”

“It was, actually. Everyone was reaching for you.”

Bucky shakes his head. “Someone always wants something,” he says softly. They are having two different conversations, but the young man is persistent.

“They all wanted you. It’s not difficult to see why.”

Bucky scoffs. “What’s your name?”

“Ivan.”

“How old are you Ivan?”

“Twenty four.”

Bucky can see he’s not lying. Ivan steps closer, smiling all hungry and drunk.

“I think I’m a little too old for you Ivan.”

“That’s okay. I like older men.”

“That’s probably not always good.”

Ivan shrugs. “What can I call you?”

Again, Bucky thinks of giving a fake name. Again, he can’t bring himself to. “James.”

Ivan runs a hand through Bucky’s hair. His eyes are intensely big and blue which should hurt but doesn’t. His mouth is round and he has just the beginnings of stubble on his chin.

Bucky should stop this. He should stop fucking strangers when he’s half drunk, but another part of him shrugs.

He likes the idea of being a stranger that someone will perhaps remember in the daylight and laugh about. Maybe they will also be thinking _I can’t believe I did that. _He likes the idea of being a story. Not a ghost story, but just a story.

Ivan stands close and kisses Bucky’s jaw. Bucky gasps more from surprise than pleasure, but that’s okay. He runs his flesh hand through the messy, sweaty curls and Ivan giggles into Bucky’s neck, far too proud of himself.

Bucky decides to remedy that.

He places a finger under Ivan’s head and tilts his head so that he’s looking up at Bucky. It’s his metal hand hidden by a glove that he’s using, and Ivan grabs that hand by the wrist runs his tongue down Bucky’s pointer finger, licking at leather.

“Jesus Christ, kid,” Bucky says, and Ivan laughs again.

Ivan guides them into a bathroom stall and immediately kisses Bucky. He’s on his tip toes to do so, and something about that pulls at Bucky’s heart. He kisses back, his mind still sluggish and slowed by the alcohol.

Ivan is pawing at Bucky’s belt buckle, far too eager to get it off. “Shit, pal, ease up,” Bucky says, though he’s already hard.

“Pal? How old are you?” Ivan says, teasing.

Bucky chokes on the laugh that comes out. “I thought you liked older guys.”

Ivan laughs and then inhales sharply when he finally gets a hand around Bucky. He looks down and then licks his lips. He kisses Bucky once more and then makes quick work of getting down on his knees. Bucky doesn’t know why any of this is so surprising anymore.

Bucky stays fairly quiet. He bites down on the knuckles of his metal hand when he comes. When Ivan gets up off the floor he kisses Bucky, and Bucky can taste himself. It’s filthy, every part of this. He almost starts laughing high pitched and crazed again, but instead pushes Ivan up against the other side of the stall and unzips his ripped up black jeans.

Bucky only uses his hand, but Ivan is loud and lets out a string of curses. It doesn’t take long. It’s familiar to Bucky, the quickness with which they work. He wonders if Ivan is allowed to be himself all the time. He suspects he’s not.

Bucky attempts to clean himself up a bit as Ivan continues to lean against the bathroom stall, breathing heavy with a little smile on his face.

“I’ll see you around,” Bucky says, and opens the stall door.

Ivan laughs. “No you won’t.”

Bucky scoffs. He leaves.

Four days later he gets on a plane to London.

/

Bucky rents out a cheap room in the heart of the city. It’s a B&B, and it’s summer, and the city is far too hot for long sleeves and a glove. He takes off his arm and hides it away in his duffle bag. He doesn’t feel too put off about it; he could kill anyone who crossed him with just the one arm anyhow. He’s done so before, and even if it was fifty years ago he can still recall it as though it had happened only a day before.

He carves an opening in the carpet of the closet in his rented room and stores the duffle bag inside. It doesn’t look damaged if you’re not looking for it. He puts on a light cotton blue t-shirt and ties up the side where his left arm should be. He twists his hair up one handed, twirling his fingers in the practiced motion. He shaves in the bathroom. He makes his way out into the muggy London summer.

He orders coffee and a Danish in a small café and waits for some sign. He’s been doing this, waiting to see where the wind will carry him.

The caffeine perks him up a bit and he goes into a little tourist trap shop, complete with knick knacks and novelty t-shirts. He buys a postcard and a stamp and sends it to Wilson. He doesn’t know why. It’s something to do with the bright colors. He signs it “B” and drops it in a nearby mailbox.

The day wears on and by late afternoon it’s hardly a surprise when Bucky finds himself in a pub. He orders food covered in grease and watches a Rugby match simply because it’s on. It’s no Dodgers game but nothing ever could be.

When he’s finished with his food he switches to whiskey and lets his mind wander in the dark corner of the bar, moving only to go out for a cigarette every hour and speaking only to indicate he’d like another glass.

He plans to stay until closing time, and to just let the smoke and booze take him over until everything is oddly hazy and it gets somewhat hard to stand, but as the bar gets more crowded there is a short disturbance. Men yell over one another, and for a moment Bucky thinks he’ll have to intervene or leave. They sound violent and angry, but it turns toward gentle ribbing as one of the men with a softer voice cracks a joke and then laughs like bells. It reminds Bucky briefly of the Howlies, but he looks towards the laugh and then immediately looks away, feeling like he’s been punched in the stomach.

The man laughing is tall but slender, with a thick head of dark hair, and smooth light brown skin. His glasses are balanced on his long, elegant nose and Bucky finds himself smiling to himself.

He stays in his corner, drinking quietly and trying not to panic. He listens to the man’s voice. He’s got a traditional English accent, like he’s come right out of the Southern part of England and has lived here his whole life. His voice is lighter and softer, its cadence measured.

Bucky waits until the man is alone, when his friends leave to smoke or use the bathroom. He hasn’t been the one to initiate anything in so long, and it must be the whiskey making him so bold.

The man leans against the bar sipping at something with ice and watches the TV. He doesn’t notice Bucky at all.

“Noisy bunch, huh?” Bucky asks. The man looks up, and when he realizes Bucky is addressing him, immediately narrows his eyes.

“A little, yeah, but they’re just having a laugh.”

“Special occasion?”

“Nah,” the man says, then shrugs. “Samir.” He extends a hand. His fingers are long and thin and smooth. Bucky shakes his hand and hopes his palm is not too rough.

“James.” Bucky inhales and rolls his eyes at himself, thinking of how decades ago he used to be really, _really_ good at this. “Can I get you a drink?”

“I was thinking of leaving, actually,” Samir says and Bucky chuckles and nods. He knows when to bow out. “Sort of tired of this crowd. There’s a deli down the street though. They make a great cup of tea.”

Bucky pays his tab and follows Samir out of the pub like he’s a stray cat, curling up to Samir’s side in the warm night air.

They order tea and Samir eats something with hummus and cucumber. Samir tells Bucky he’s a professor of literature on sabbatical. Bucky tells Samir he’s ex-military though he’s been trying out other things. Samir does not stare at the empty space where Bucky’s arm should be.

Samir has two brothers and owns a cat. His parents still live in India. He doesn’t eat meat and has three books published. He speaks firmly but gives off such a calming energy that Bucky doesn’t even realize how late it is when they get kicked out of the deli at three am.

They go to Samir’s apartment and Bucky passes out on his couch. He wakes up with a black cat on his chest four hours later. Samir is making tea in the kitchen when Bucky rubs his eyes and pushes the hair out of his face.

“That’s Baldwin, just ignore him. I have both coffee and tea.”

“I thought you only had tea here,” Bucky jokes, scratching Baldwin behind his ears.

“You Americans think you’re so clever. Tea is what you’re getting then.”

They eat tea and little cakes and Samir makes jokes about American politics that Bucky doesn’t fully understand. After Samir clears their plates he sits down on the sofa next to Bucky and kisses him. It’s very very soft and near painfully sweet. Bucky wants to be someone who is familiar with being kissed like this often.

Samir takes Bucky by the hand and leads him into the bedroom. They undress and Bucky is self-conscious about his arm for all of five seconds before Samir makes him forget his name.

Bucky laughs halfway through when he hears the cat scratching at the bedroom door.

“I told you to ignore him,” Samir says, smiling, and thrusts into Bucky, making him bite down hard on his bottom lip.

Afterwards, Bucky wants a cigarette. He wanders naked into Samir’s living room and finds his pack in his pants pocket. He’s about to light up when Samir wanders out in only his underwear and snatches the lighter from Bucky’s hand.

“Just because you’re good in bed you think you can smoke in my apartment?”

“Am I good in bed?” Bucky asks, and he says it before he realizes that that is probably an obnoxious thing to say.

“Don’t act like you don’t know,” Samir says and rolls his eyes. “Put on some trousers and take your cigarettes outside.”

_Am I really? _Bucky wonders. _Not like I had much of a chance to practice. _

Bucky puts on pants. He smokes on Samir’s balcony. The sun is just starting to go down. Samir joins him outside with a glass of water.

“I have to go get my things,” Bucky says, not liking that he’s left the arm for as many hours as he has.

“Oh,” Samir says, and his expression is confused and maybe a little hurt.

“I meant to bring back!” Bucky says quickly. Then he stutters, sighs, and tries again. “I meant, if you are okay with me coming back. I just didn’t anticipate being gone so long.

Samir laughs and pushes a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. “It’s fine James. You can get your things and come back. We can cook dinner. Do you want to cook dinner? We can order something too.”

“I like to cook. And you should come with me.”

“Where?”

“To get my things,” Bucky says, suddenly hating the idea of being without this man for even the half hour it would take to get his duffle bag.

They get dressed. Samir watches Bucky pull a shirt on and tie his hair up appreciatively and Bucky feels his face go hot.

Samir is incredibly beautiful. The thin layer of hair covering his chest and stomach makes Bucky’s mouth fall open. Samir is only twenty nine, but he’s got a little bit of grey at his temples, and for some reason Bucky finds it ridiculously attractive.

“Samir,” Bucky says softly, and touches the touch of grey. Samir smiles.

“Yes?”

“Thank you for today.”

Samir laughs and it’s gorgeous. “Darling, I’ve loved every moment. Let’s go get your things.”

Samir talks all the way to the hotel and Bucky smokes, not having to add much to keep Samir talking. He talks about everything. He’s so smart Bucky can hardly keep up. He talks about poetry and art and politics in one breath and Bucky doesn’t understand all of it because he’s still catching up but Samir’s mind is brilliant and constantly connecting dots.

Samir doesn’t ask what’s in the duffle bag. When they leave the hotel he asks Bucky, “Do you want to check out?”

“Do you want me to?”

“You can stay with me.”

Bucky looks at his duffle bag, the arm sitting heavy inside. “You don’t even know me.”

Samir shrugs. “You don’t know me either. Just stay with me. How long are you in London?”

“Just a week.”

“So stay for a week.”

So Bucky stays.

They pick up things for dinner. Bucky used to cook in Wakanda. He used to cook in the thirties and forties with his Ma and sisters, and then later for Steve. It all feels so far away now that he’s here in London with a near stranger who he is holding hands with, an impossible thought back then. He’s so different he thinks me may as well be someone else entirely. The thought sits heavy in his bones but then Samir squeezes his hand and points to a garlic sauce and Bucky forgets it all entirely.

Bucky sautés mushrooms in a pan and Samir makes a salad. Bucky adds onions and garlic to his pan and feels so content that he audibly sighs. Samir raises an eyebrow but doesn’t ask anything.

“What do you want to drink? I have lemon water or a Coke.”

“Do you have any beer?”

“I don’t I’m afraid. But I can go get some. There’s a shop just down the street. It’d take just five minutes.”

“That’s fine. No worries.”

“I don’t typically keep alcohol in the house,” Samir admits. “I don’t drink.”

Bucky laughs. “I met you in a bar.”

“I was only there for my friend’s birthday.”

“You were there for a birthday party and you ditched it to go home with me.” Bucky laughs again. “Huh.”

“I don’t think he was surprised. I called him while you were asleep to apologize. He thought it was funny.”

They eat and Bucky gets sleepy almost instantly. He falls asleep while they watch a movie. He wakes two hours later to a documentary playing and Samir asleep against his shoulder. He twitches in his sleep and Bucky can’t help himself. He kisses Samir’s hair. He shifts his arm so that he can tap Samir’s shoulder.

“Hey, get up. You’re gonna hurt your neck.”

“Hm?”

“Let’s go to bed.”

Samir sits up and then takes Bucky by the hand and they go to sleep. They just sleep. Samir holds Bucky as they drift off together. He doesn’t wake again until morning.

In the morning Samir kisses down Bucky’s neck and drags him into the shower.

They continue like this for three days. By the fourth day Bucky is so comfortable he thinks that if the rest of his days looked like this it wouldn’t be so bad. He likes everything about Samir. He likes that he wakes up early every morning. He likes that he knows three languages. They started speaking Hindi together on the second night and Samir had been so pleased his whole face had lit up. Bucky had lied and said someone from his infantry had taught him.

He likes that Samir doesn’t drink. He likes that he’s quiet and thoughtful. He loves the things he does in bed.

On the fifth day Bucky is eating a tomato sandwich and drinking tea when Samir runs a hand through his hair.

“You sure you don’t mind that I’m just…here?”

“If I minded I would say, stupid.” Samir takes the sandwich out of Bucky’s hand and takes a bite out of it. “What day are you leaving?”

“Um,” Bucky says, because he had said a week, but he doesn’t want to leave. He should leave. He shouldn’t even have stayed more than a day. But here he is.

“I’m just saying it’s only the first month of my sabbatical. I’ve got three more months of freedom.”

“You really want a one armed scruffy American laying around your apartment for even longer?”

“Yes actually. I like this scruffy American.” Samir leans down and kisses Bucky. It’s all so sweet. He has no idea why Samir likes him so much but he won’t question it. He squeezes Samir’s waist.

He’s looking at Bucky with his mouth all soft. Bucky thinks to himself _I might love him already, _and has to look away.

“So when are you going to go? I just want to prepare myself darling.”

“I could maybe stay a little longer. Another week?”

“Really?” Samir smiles wide and plops himself down into Bucky’s lap. He wraps his arms around Bucky’s neck kisses his neck. “Do you mean it?”

“I’d really really like to.”

“I’d really really like you to.” Samir kisses Bucky and then sneaks a hand down between his legs. Bucky loses any resolve he had after that. He agrees to stay for another week.

“You’ve been such a surprise,” Samir says, running a finger down Bucky’s jaw.

“You’re real quiet and real sweet, and I really needed that,” Bucky says.

“I wasn’t always like this you know.” Samir taps two fingers against the table. “I used to be frightening.”

“You?” Bucky asks as gently as he can.

“Eight years ago I almost killed someone.” Samir says it all matter of fact. “I beat a man within an inch of his life in an alley. He said nasty things to me and my old boyfriend. I was a little too drunk. It got out of hand very quickly.”

“I killed a lot of people,” Bucky admits.

“Isn’t it funny how that works. I could have gone to prison.”

“Ain’t it just.”

“Would you take me to bed?” Samir asks. His voice is low and broken and his eyes are so big, so Bucky does.

On the ninth night Bucky has the dream where he’s lying in the snow, the white turning red, and he can’t feel his arm anymore but he can see it still attached to his body, but it’s a little too far away and he throws up from the pain but he’s on his back so he’s choking on it and then

He wakes. Samir is calling his name, or someone’s name. Who the hell is James anyway? The only one who calls him James is his mother and his mother has been dead for a very, very long time.

“Darling, it’s okay. Please don’t cry.”

_Am I crying? _Bucky wonders. He wipes his eyes.

“I’m so sorry,” he says to the warm hands on his face. “Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry.”

“Why in the world are you apologizing to me?” Samir asks, kissing the side of Bucky’s face.

Bucky falls apart and holds onto the body next to him. He is in love with this body and everything that comes with it. It’s a horrible realization.

Eventually he stops crying and Samir falls back to sleep, an arm still curled around Bucky. Bucky doesn’t sleep.

“I have to leave soon,” Bucky announces in the morning over coffee. It does not feel good to say, but he can’t keep playing house. He feels so small.

“I was thinking about that,” Samir says, fiddling with his mug. “I know you have to go, but where are you going? Can you stay? Is that an option at all?” He looks at Bucky under his eyelashes. He is so beautiful, it’s not fair at all.

“I’ve already stayed too long,” Bucky says, and his tongue feels too big for his mouth. His cheeks feel hot and itchy.

“No you haven’t. You could stay here forever for all I care.”

“You can’t just say shit like that,” Bucky whispers.

“Maybe I’m being terribly naïve, but I don’t think I am. I know it’s not even yet been two weeks. I feel so stupid,” Samir says, cutting himself off. He looks away, out the kitchen window, out at London. Bucky doesn’t know why he picked London. “I feel so stupid saying this out loud in this way. This isn’t how this usually works but given the circumstances. Just. Just stay, would you? Why not? I think. I think you feel the same way as me. Us meeting wasn’t an accident.”

“Sure it was.”

“Then it was a very very lucky accident.”

“I never gave you my full name, and I never can. I can’t tell you things, and I need to leave.” Bucky is still whispering. He can’t seem to raise his voice. It’s probably because he doesn’t mean anything that he’s saying.

“I know you’re hurting. I’m sure there are things you won’t be able to say. I just don’t see the sense in throwing this away. I know neither of us meant for it to go so far but we could have more, James.”

“Samir, I need to leave.” He says it as firmly as he can. He wants to throw his coffee cup across the room.

“Can we at least keep in touch? I’ll send you emails. Hell, I’ll send you letters. Just, something.”

“I stayed too long,” Bucky repeats. He has to swallow down on the lump in his throat. He won’t lose his resolve. He can’t afford to.

“I think you are being a coward.”

“I’ve always been a fuckin’ coward.”

Samir stands up from the table. He stands over Bucky and brushes his knuckles against Bucky’s cheekbone, impossibly soft. “Why are you doing this to yourself?”

“I’m not doin’ nothin’.”

“James I’m. I’m fa—” Samir starts but Bucky cuts him off by slapping his hand away.

He points a finger at Samir and finally finds his voice. “Don’t you fucking say that. Just. Don’t. Say it.”

“What are you so afraid of?”

“My mother is the only person who ever called me James. Nobody calls me that.” Bucky stands. Samir grabs him by the wrist and pulls him close.

“What do you want me to call you?”

“I need to get my things.”

“Are you so afraid to be happy? James, please come back here.”

Bucky turns and lets the soldier take over. The mask comes down because if it’s the ineffable thing that he can’t escape then he’ll at least make it useful.

“People that have done what I have don’t get to be happy. If you touch me again you’ll lose a hand.”

Samir’s eyes are angry. They’ve both resorted to what they hate and what they know. “Get the fuck out then.”

Bucky makes a quick sweep of the apartment. He grabs his toothbrush and comb out of the bathroom. He gathers his randomly strewn clothes off the bedroom floor. He doesn’t look at the bed. They made love in that bed not two hours ago.

He takes the duffle bag and shoves his shoes onto his feet, feeling silly that it’s taking him this long to storm out.

“James,” Samir says from the kitchen. Bucky is still tying his shoelaces, going too slow without his metal hand. Stupidly, he misses the thing. Bucky looks up despite everything.

Samir’s glasses are round and his hair is soft and dark. He’s going grey at his temples. His teeth are nearly perfect. He’s going grey at his temples. He has a scar on his left thigh. His mouth opens again but nothing comes out. He is going grey at his temples. “I don’t want to leave things like this.”

“I’m really sorry.”

He walks towards Bucky. Hesitant, like he really believed Bucky might hurt him for a moment, he places his fingers in Bucky’s hair. He runs his thumb across Bucky’s cheekbone, then across his bottom lip. He kisses Bucky’s forehead.

“Me too.”

Bucky takes the hand in his hair and kisses the knuckles. Samir sighs, and Bucky doesn’t look at his face. He takes the bag and leaves.

He finds a coffee shop and goes into the bathroom. He puts the arm back on. It feels tight against the scar tissue but it whirs to life all the same. He flexes his metal fingers. He walks out. He lights a cigarette and heads for the airport.

/

He’s sick of being a tourist. He’s an American after all. LA seems fine. It’s the opposite of London. At least there’s actually some God damn sun.

He stays at a B&B right on the beach. He wakes up early in the morning to the sunlight pouring in through the blinds. He gets up and wanders around the pier, then gets lost around Laguna Hills until he finds a bar that’s already open at ten am. It’s a football bar for some Midwest team he’s not familiar with. Sam had told him about football. Bucky wasn’t much into football. Still, it’s open and is serving beer.

There’s already yelling as game begins, and Bucky watches even though he doesn’t have any stake one way or the other. He drinks beer and after about an hour orders a burger because why the hell not? He gets halfway through the meal when a beer is spilled in his general vicinity.

“Oh, shit, I’m sorry,” a man down the bar says. He picks up his glass and starts trying to clean up the mess with little drink napkins.

“It’s no problem,” Bucky says. The man is very drunk. He’s got blond curly hair and blue eyes. He’s built like a tank.

“You watchin’ the game?” The man asks, continuing to helplessly mop up watery beer.

“Sure.”

“Who you rootin’ for?”

“Whoever you’re rootin’ for,” Bucky says, and raises his glass.

“You’re God damn right! That’s a good man!”

“Joey, quit buggin’ the guy, Christ!” one of the group calls from down the bar.

Joey ignores his friend. “You wanna watch with us?”

“I don’t want to impose,” Bucky says, sipping his beer.

“You’re not! Come on, we finish watching the game, we do some tequila shots, we hit the beach.”

One of the teams scores and the entire bar goes wild. “Come on, now you have to do a shot with us!”

Bucky doesn’t remember the last time he had tequila. He wonders if he ever did. He likes it. It goes down nicely with the salt and lime and it feels even nicer when he’s out of the bar and on the beach, the sun beating down on his bare skin. Joey asks Bucky his name and when Bucky tells him it’s James he starts insisting on calling him Jamie. Bucky figures this is fine. If he can’t be Bucky he might as well have some other nickname, at least for a few days. He ties his hair up tight on his head, one handed again because it’s not as though he could wear the arm with this heat. He would be far too suspicious. He slowly gets drunk with Joey and his friends, his feet in the sand. He learns they are in their thirties and were all in a fraternity together.

“We do this at least once a year. Sometimes twice if we can swing it. Obviously not the last five years but, you get the idea,” Joey says, taking a swig of his beer.

“They seem like good people.”

“They are. I love them a lot.” Joey leans in closer to Bucky. “Wanna go find another bar along the beach? I could use another shot.” Joey stands and holds out a hand to help Bucky up. Bucky takes it, stumbling a little in the sand as he realizes how drunk he is already.

“I need to find a cigarette.”

Joey laughs and bends down next to the cooler. “Come on, we were in a frat.” He throws Bucky a pack and a lighter. Bucky throws his head back and sighs in appreciation.

They smoke as they walk along the beach. Joey talks a lot and Bucky thinks if he were in any other circumstance he would probably find him grating. He’s loud and laughs at his own jokes, but there’s something endearing about how earnest he is. He’s a little weird too, but Bucky thinks it’s only because Joey doesn’t seem to care about what people think.

They find a bar and do two more tequila shots. They go out into the ocean, and the salt water sprays Bucky’s eyes. It burns but not in an all-together unpleasant way. It surprises the hell out of him when Joey kisses him while they’re knee deep in the ocean.

“Whoa, how drunk are you?” Bucky says, pushing Joey back a little.

“Fuck, man I’m sorry. I misread this.”

“I mean, no, you didn’t,” Bucky says, confused. “I’m just surprised.”

Joey pushes his wet curls out of his face. “Why?”

Bucky laughs. “I don’t know.” He throws an arm around Joey and kisses him again.

They end up in Bucky’s room less than an hour later.

Sleeping with Joey is intense, and it borders on violent even but it’s a hell of a lot of fun. They laugh through half of it, even when things get particularly extreme. It’s fun and Bucky thinks he can let all of his harnessed confusion and misplaced frustration out with Joey, who makes a lot of noise and smiles wickedly when he touches Bucky just right. Bucky gives that wickedness right back in ways he didn’t even imagine he would have enjoyed.

“You’re a bad man,” Joey says the second time Bucky’s got his head between his legs. Joey pulls his hair a little and Bucky whines into it.

“I know.”

They find Joey’s friends again later in the night. They walk along Venice Beach and pass a joint back and forth. Bucky smokes it and feels all floaty and forgets about everything other than Joey’s hand in his.

The other men are funny and they talk around each other in such a natural way that it reminds Bucky of the Howlies. He gets sad about them for a minute, but then comes back to the beach and laughs at their friendship. It isn’t his, but he can still admire it.

Joey goes back to Bucky’s room with him again. He pushes Bucky up against a wall and kisses him so hard Bucky thinks Joey might break his nose.

When they come up for air Joey smiles and bites down on his lower lip. “Where’d you come from Jamie?”

“I was born a hundred and seven years ago in Brooklyn New York.”

Joey laughs and pushes Bucky onto the bed. “Where do you come up with this shit?” He whispers, and turns Bucky over onto his stomach. Bucky laughs as he pushes his face into the mattress.

“I’ve got an active imagination.”

They grab breakfast and drink Bloody Mary’s. Bucky eats all of Joey’s olives and laughs when Joey’s friends tease him for going to bed with the first guy he finds. They tease Bucky too and Bucky likes it so much, and he hates that he doesn’t really know them at all and never will. He spends one more night with them, and after lunch the next day, he tells them all he has a flight to catch.

He shakes hands with the group and then Joey pulls him aside.

“Leaving so soon?” Joey asks, running a hand through his sand covered blond curls.

“Yeah, I gotta go.”

“That’s too bad. We were having a pretty good time.”

“We were.”

“Well, take care of yourself then,” Joey says, and pulls Bucky in close. He presses his forehead to Bucky’s. “I mean it.”

“Yeah. You too.” Bucky is so surprised by the tenderness of the gesture that he almost isn’t able to respond.

Joey pulls away and gives Bucky a little wave. “Bye Jamie. See ya ‘round.”

Bucky smiles and walks through the sand back to his room to gather his things. He thinks he’ll go see the mountains.

/

He rents a car and drives into the Rocky Mountains. He likes driving. He rolls the windows down as he drives higher and higher up. It’s absolutely gorgeous. Bucky thinks he could stay here for years and be perfectly content. He always thought that after the war, if he did make it out, which he never thought he would do anyway (isn’t it a laugh that he was right?), he would just leave everything he’d ever known and go live out west in the middle of nowhere. There were certain things he knew about himself that he had never wanted to admit to, things involving other men, and one in particular with yellow hair and the temper of twenty men combined. All those things had made him know that if he did make it out, he’d have to go away. There wasn’t a place for him in the world. Until now. Funnily enough.

He stays at a lodge and goes down to the main dining hall. He orders whiskey neat and sits outside and smokes, staring at the mountains until the sun goes down. Even then, he stays on the patio, smoking and drinking and soaking up all the fresh air.

He’s all wrapped up in a leather jacket and he’s got the glove over his metal hand. It’s colder up in the mountains. The air is thinner. He appreciates the cold now, in comparison to the California heat.

He closes his eyes and puts his cigarette to his lips. He can hear everything. There’s a body of water nearby. He can’t see it but he can hear it. An owl screeches. The insects are deafening.

He sits outside all alone for a long time. The night stretches out over him and before he knows it, Bucky is watching the sun come up over the peaks of the mountains. The sky is purple and pink, and he lights up the last cigarette in his pack, all special for the sunrise.

When the sun is fully up he goes inside and orders a coffee instead of a whiskey. His mouth tastes like hell but he drinks the coffee, showers, and then falls asleep for a few hours. It’s still only nine am when he wakes up.

He doesn’t go back to the lobby. Instead, he goes out onto the little balcony attached to his room. It’s made of wood and there’s a table and two chairs waiting for him. He drinks water from the tap and lights a cigarette, watching the sky. He’s going to go out into the wilderness, just as soon as he gets some real rest.

Bucky looks to his right and sees another wood balcony, only about four feet away from his own. There’s no one to his right. He turns left and sees that this side has an occupant. Bucky raises a hand to say hello.

The man waves back. He’s wearing a green sweater. He has thick and dark hair, light brown skin, and a full mouth that turns upwards when he sees Bucky. He stands, leaning his elbows on the railing and holding a cup of coffee in his hands. He’s stocky, and his smile is shy.

“This place is nuts,” Bucky says, blowing smoke out of the side of his face.

“I know. It’s beautiful.” The man shakes his head in awe.

“How long you here?”

“A week. You?”

“I don’t know yet.” Bucky looks out at the mountains and works his jaw. He doesn’t know if he’ll ever be able to make himself leave this place. “James.”

“Wills.”

Bucky takes his time venturing out to the lobby. He shaves carefully, and he’s always so surprised at his clean shaven face. He’s much older now, but when he pulls his hair back off his forehead and out of his eyes, he can almost see the boy in war, the boy that wasn’t yet lost in snow. He inspects himself carefully once he is dressed. He’s dressed warm for the mountains: a t-shirt, a grey hoodie, his black bomber jacket and the single glove. He finds that he likes how he looks with the clean face and the hair all out of his face. He looks…unremarkable.

He takes his pack of cigarettes, his wallet (complete with fake ID and Steve’s old credit cards) and a pocket knife and walks out of his room and toward the dining hall.

He orders coffee and eggs and eats while people start to make their way down to eat. There are restaurants nearby that are probably better but it’s a matter of convenience. And of view.

Bucky sees Wills enter the dining hall and waves him over. Wills hesitates, but then sits down next to Bucky.

“Hey neighbor,” Bucky says.

“Hi,” Wills replies, incredibly soft spoken. Up close he’s even more handsome. His smile is incredible and his eyes are dark and warm. Bucky holds out his hand and Wills’ grip is strong. “Are you here by yourself?”

“Sure am!” Bucky says cheerfully. “What about you?”

“I’m here with a large group actually, but I’ve sort of been avoiding them.”

“Why?”

“I wanna go camping and I’ve been trying to plan for that. The rest of them just want to sit at the bar or in the hot tub. Which is fine, but it’s like…look at this place. A few of the guys I’m with grew up here, so I think no big deal to them.”

“How could anyone ever get used to this?” Bucky says earnestly.

“I know. I don’t get it.” Wills takes the seat across from Bucky. He folds his hands on the table and smiles. “Why come out here if you’re not gonna bother to see all of it?”

“So you are going out there?”

“Yeah. I got a tent and a sleeping bag, I just need to go to the shop to get some food. I was gonna hike it. They have campgrounds a few miles up.”

“You lookin’ for company?” Bucky asks, far too forward, but hell, if they’re both going up there anyway, why not?

Wills laughs. “I don’t know, do you think you can handle a couple nights in the wilderness?”

It’s Bucky’s turn to laugh. He thinks back to all the nights he spent sleeping in holes in the ground he dug himself. “Yeah, I think I can handle it.”

They go to the shops and buy supplies. Bucky gets himself a sleeping bag and a backpack. They buy food and a few toiletries, pack up, and head out by noon.

Wills doesn’t mention his group of friends again. Bucky is happy to provide an escape from them.

They hike for four hours before they reach the campgrounds. Bucky can’t help himself, his instincts kick in, and he finds himself memorizing each step they take, planning the fastest route back down just in case.

They find the campgrounds and Bucky helps Wills set up a tent. Wills knows what he’s doing. The tent goes up fast and Wills starts a fire without even using a match.

Apparently Bucky is looking impressed because Wills shrugs as he admires his own work. “I was an Eagle Scout,” he explains.

They go to bed early, exhausted from the hike. They share the tent but sleep a couple feet apart, the tent plenty big for two grown men to share without any funny business happening. Plus, Bucky doesn’t even know what exactly it is that Wills wants. He seems hesitant but still hopeful. Bucky isn’t sure what he’s supposed to be doing. All he knows is that he likes when Wills blushes, which he does around Bucky a lot. All Bucky has to do is smile just right or tease a little. It’s nice, to have someone so completely enthralled with him. He eats it up.

In the morning, Bucky wakes up to Wills eating bread and cheese and cooking a sausage over a small fire. Bucky lights a cigarette and goes to sit against a nearby tree.

“Do you want any food?” Wills asks.

“Not before cigarettes and coffee.” Bucky looks around at the grey sky hidden by green and yellow leaves. “So fuckin’ pretty out here.”

“I know. Thanks for coming up here with me.”

“No problem. ‘Sides, it’s not the only pretty sight up here.”

Bucky winks at Wills from where he sits against a tree trunk and Wills blushes intensely and smiles, all the while staring at his feet.

“You’re the one who dragged a stranger out into the woods, lookin’ for company. You can’t be actin’ all bashful!” Bucky teases, and Wills laughs and hides his head in his hands.

The way he’s making this grown man giggle and blushy makes Bucky feel like he’s nineteen again, taking some dame out and feeling good that he can make her happy, but this is even better because he’s flirting with someone he actually wants.

“Sorry,” Wills says, still trying to compose himself. “I mean, you’re real good lookin’ you know? What am I supposed to do?”

“I only tease ‘cause I like making you blush. It’s so easy.” It’s only then that Bucky realizes. “You’ve never had a guy flirt with you before, have you?”

“No, but I’d always really hoped,” Wills confirms. He puts all his food down on a paper plate and holds his palms up to Bucky like he’s surrendering. “You caught me.”

Bucky laughs. “It’s okay. I didn’t flirt with guys for a real long time. Nothin’ to be ashamed of.” Bucky wants him to know he means it.

Wills nods and then smiles sadly. “Thanks.”

They spend the day talking about nothing. They hike a small trail and eat lunch. They spend one more night in the tent. Wills is daring enough to throw an arm around Bucky’s waist in the middle of the night and Bucky smiles to himself, and holds Wills hand against his stomach. He doesn’t do anything else.

They take down the tent in the morning. Wills carefully puts out their fire from breakfast and rolls up his sleeping back. They hike back down, quiet with each other, and instead just listening to the birds and the wind in the trees.

After a couple hours, when they start to get close to the lodge, Bucky pulls Wills to the side of the trail and puts his hand to the back of his neck.

“What do you think?”

“About what?”

“You know about what.”

Wills smiles and averts his eyes all nervous. “Uh,” he says, and looks at his feet. Bucky tilts Will’s chin up with one finger.

“Honey, just say yes or no.”

“Yes,” Wills says quickly, so Bucky kisses him. He can feel Wills smile into it, which makes Bucky smile too. When he pulls away, Wills looks like he’s just won a million bucks.

“See, wasn’t so hard was it?”

“Thank you,” Wills says, very serious suddenly. “I was afraid I wasn’t going to get to do that.”

Bucky just nods, and then they walk the rest of the way back, smiling back at one another every few feet.

Wills goes back to his friends the next night. He invites Bucky to hang out with all of them, but Bucky is tired. He doesn’t want to be James anymore. His name is Bucky Barnes. He’s from Brooklyn. He was born March 10, 1918. He has to go home. He has to go to New York.

/

Bucky finds Wilson doing a lap around Central Park at five am. Wilson is still about thirty yards away when he stops in his tracks. He breathes hard for a good twenty seconds before he raises his left hand and gives a little two finger half salute. Bucky returns the gesture.

He’s never been quite sure how to act around Sam Wilson. He doesn’t know where he’s meant to fit with him. He likes Sam a great deal, but Sam couldn’t trust Bucky for a very long time. Who could? And after everything Bucky hadn’t exactly given him much of a chance to get to know him. He’d just run away.

Sam walks towards Bucky, the sun just starting to hint at coming up. It’s been about seven months, but Sam looks the same. In fact, he looks good.

“Barnes,” Sam says, still catching his breath.

“Wilson.”

“Where you been?”

“I decided I needed some R&R.”

“A heads up would have been nice.”

Bucky shakes his head, confused. “Why would it matter?”

Sam scoffs. “Seriously?”

“I just meant. I didn’t think anyone would care.” Bucky shrugs, but can already feel the self-conscious blush creeping up his neck. He does that a lot more now in the twenty first century than he ever did in the previous.

“Well you’re a dumbass, so.” Sam cracks a smile and extends his hand. Bucky shakes it with his flesh hand and smiles back. “How long have you been back?”

Bucky adjusts his baseball cap, pulling it further down over his eyes as another early morning jogger passes by. “Only long enough to get my own place set up.”

“Well let’s go,” Sam says, wiping sweat off his forehead with his sweatshirt, revealing an impossibly toned stomach. Bucky looks away and clears his throat.

“Go where?”

“To your new place! I wanna see where you’re staying. You think I’m just gonna let you disappear all assassin style on me again?” Wilson throws an arm around Bucky’s shoulder. Bucky hasn’t been touched in such a warm way by someone who knows him, knows all he’s done, in months, and it’s so nice that he just slumps into Sam’s side, unable to deny himself.

They go to Bucky’s apartment and Sam looks through all the rooms, a confused and concerned look growing on his face.

“You haven’t got any stuff,” Sam says, more to himself than to Bucky. “You haven’t even got a bed. Where the hell have you been sleeping?”

“Uh,” Bucky begins, not sure he’s willing to admit that he crawled into the closet and slept shut up tight in one corner the last two nights.

“We’ll order you a bed. A firm mattress, don’t worry. As someone who used to sleep on rocks, I know most beds are too soft.” He pats Bucky’s arm twice and then starts looking through the kitchen. “You need food Barnes!”

“Okay,” Bucky says softly, too overwhelmed by Wilson’s concern and kindness to say much else.

Sam stays in his workout clothes, and completely abandons his morning routine to help Bucky settle back into New York. He thinks it’s probably because he doesn’t believe that Bucky will do any of it himself if not pushed, and he’s absolutely right.

In the middle of a supermarket, a few people pass by and stare at Sam, recognizing the newest Captain America from newspapers and online articles and the TV and probably billboards all over the city. Bucky pulls his cap lower over his eyes. If he’s recognized he’ll bolt. He has no idea if he’s still a wanted criminal though, so far no one has said anything about it. Maybe after everything, the world collectively decided the Winter Soldier wasn’t important enough to care about.

“Do you cook Barnes?” Sam asks, holding a jar of Marinara sauce.

“I like to cook,” he says softly. “I used to cook with Shuri,” he says, and has to swallow down on the lump in his throat, thinking of how she had been so kind to him. Sometimes she had spent whole evenings most likely neglecting important smartest-person-in-the-world-duties to cook with him, or watch movies, or simply sit in the same room with him while he read or got used to all the new technology. The kid had pulled his trigger words out of his head. He thinks about how he had said no one would miss him. He really was a dumbass.

Later that night, Sam insists on taking Bucky out for a beer. Maybe it’s just because he wants to see him for a little bit longer, worried that he’ll disappear, but either way Bucky goes. He drinks watery beer and tries to tell Sam about what he did while he was away. He tries to apologize. Instead, he listens to Sam talk about his parents and the VA. His voice is soothing.

They’re at the bar about two hours when Bucky notices a man with dark eyes watching him. He’s good looking enough, and if it were a month ago maybe Bucky would have gone over to him and let something happen.

Sam must notice because he clears his throat and rolls his eyes.

“You could go talk to him,” Sam says, and Bucky doesn’t even blush at being caught out. “I don’t mind, I swear.” He’s laughing behind his beer glass.

“Ah, no. That’s okay. I think I got my fill of hooking up with strangers over the last six months.”

“So what, did you screw your way through Europe or something?” Sam asks. He’s only teasing but Bucky feels a bit annoyed at the joke anyway.

“Not really. I just…let myself be a person for a little while.”

“Nah. That’s real good Bucky. So where did you go?”

“All over,” Bucky replies, sipping his beer.

“I got your postcard from London,” Sam says, raising his eyebrows.

“Yeah. I started feeling kind of guilty I guess.”

“I mean, my best friend decides to time travel back to the forties, and leave me alone, no warning at all. So then when I think we’ve stopped losing everyone, you up and disappear too.”

Bucky laughs humorlessly. “Sam, you don’t even like me.”

“I’ve found you’re usually a pain in my ass, but I never said I didn’t like you. Plus, I think it’s justified. The first time I met you, you destroyed my car and nearly strangled me to death.”

Bucky smiles despite himself. He nods. He drinks his beer. Sam smiles at Bucky, and seeing the gap between his two front teeth makes Bucky feel human.

“I shoulda reached out. I’m sorry. Steve left and I just needed to be alone. For a really long time all we had was each other. So much of my life was about following that little shit, watching his back. I needed to just be me.”

“Who are you then?” Sam asks, mouth hidden behind his beer glass, but eyes serious.

“I don’t know yet. But I think I’m getting closer.”

It starts with small things. Bucky gets a record player. He buys one Glenn Miller album and the rest is all new stuff. It’s no fun to think about when he was a kid when there’s no one to reminisce with. Besides, he thinks he’s been having more fun in the present.

He starts buying house plants and names them Dot, Christine, and Blair, all girls he once dated at the insistence of his mother.

Sam comes over and spends time with him a lot. Bucky starts knitting and baking and watching the Home Food Network and lifting weights and generally doing anything besides leaving his apartment.

There’s one particular evening where he’s got a pop album on, a cigarette dangling between his lips, and a knitting needle in each hand. Sam comes through the door after Bucky buzzes him up with a six pack in tow and a raised eyebrow.

He watches Bucky pull the needles through blue thread for a full ten seconds before he puts the beer down and lets out a laugh so long and loud Bucky can’t help but smirk.

“What?”

Sam clutches his chest. “I’m sorry man. It’s just. You literally look like someone’s deranged grandmother.”

Bucky puts down his knitting and ashes his cigarette. “Well I’m certainly old enough to be someone’s grandmother.”

“You ever gonna leave the house, huh?”

“I don’t know.”

“You gonna stop chain smoking?”

Bucky takes another drag and winks. “Make me.”

“You flirting with me Barnes?”

“You fuckin’ wish,” Bucky says, and laughs with his cigarette between his teeth. “You gonna share that beer or what?”

That’s how it continues. Sam comes to Bucky’s apartment and sometimes he has beer and whiskey. Other times he has leftovers from his sister’s Sunday dinner and sometimes he just sits with Bucky for hours. Sometimes he doesn’t say anything at all.

“I have an assignment coming up,” Sam says one evening. It’s raining, and Bucky’s smoking a cigarette out the window, listening to the rain. His contentment is immediately halted. He feels a tightening in his chest, an anxious knot beginning that he hasn’t felt in ages. “I was hoping you would help me out.”

“What kind of assignment?” Bucky asks, stubbing out his cigarette. He goes to the kitchen and pours himself a glass of whiskey. He downs it in two gulps.

“We got one of ours stuck in France. We gotta get him out. I could use backup that I can trust.” Sam shrugs.

“Why don’t you get the kid with the spider suit to help you. Or Scott. Scott’s good. Where’s Wanda?”

Sam sighs. “I could use Scott, but I was hoping for you.”

“Why?” Bucky demands. He runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I don’t want to fight anymore.”

“I was mainly thinking it would be good to get you out of your apartment. I was thinking you could use some structure.”

“I’ve got structure. I have routine here. I’m almost done with my blanket.”

Sam laughs and rolls his eyes. “Barnes. I’m serious. I’m putting together a team.”

“I heard that shit before.”

“You can just say no, it’s fine. I’m sorry,” Sam says softly.

“I never wanted to fight,” Bucky says, pouring himself another drink. “That was all Steve’s wrap. Now he’s finally done fighting and I’d like to be done too thank you very much.” Bucky’s flesh hand shakes at his side as he downs his drink.

“It was a stupid idea,” Sam says.

“But I don’t want you where I can’t see you.”

Sam looks up, and his expression is unreadable. It might be somewhere between hopeful and hungry.

“You serious?” Sam asks, a smile forming on his lips.

“Yeah. Fine. I’ll do it. Send me the details.”

The mission was supposed to be in out and done. Bucky distracts while Sam takes out the targets and gathers up their captured agent.

But Bucky is rusty. He’s gone soft. They complete the mission but Sam takes a hit, a bullet in his shoulder, and Bucky feels like his world is snapping in two. He goes to Sam’s aid and instead of helping he slips up, gets surprised by two enemy agents and winds up with a busted lip and a broken nose, his face smashing into concrete before he can even realize what’s happening. He only saves himself too late and his metal fingers whir under the weight of another snapped neck.

When he gets to Sam, there’s blood dripping into Bucky’s mouth from his nose.

“Sam?” Bucky asks. Sam rolls his eyes.

“I’m fine Barnes. We gotta go. Fury already confirmed they got our agent out.”

Sam heals up fine but Bucky doesn’t like knowing that he couldn’t even cover him. He feels helpless. Sam doesn’t mention it, and instead dotes on Bucky ceaselessly in the days after the mission.

Sam is cleaning the bandage on Bucky’s busted nose when Bucky says it, like it’s nothing.

“I fell in love when I was in London.”

Sam’s hands go still.

“Okay.”

“I only knew him for two weeks.”

Sam raises an eyebrow and almost starts to laugh, ready to give Bucky a hard time about it, but Bucky wants him to understand.

“Don’t look at me like that, okay? I know how it sounds, but I did. I was in love with someone before for a very long time, I know what it feels like.”

Sam doesn’t ask who because it doesn’t matter and he probably already knows anyway.

“Okay, I believe you. What happened?”

“What do you think?” Bucky says, and points to his busted nose. “I couldn’t even tell him my full name.”

“I’m sorry.”

Bucky shrugs. Sam finishes with Bucky’s bandage. “You don’t talk about him.”

“About who?” Sam asks.

“Riley.”

“I talk about him, I just haven’t talked about him with you. I didn’t think you’d want to know.”

“But you were together,” Bucky confirms.

“Yeah. We were.” Sam doesn’t meet his eye and instead elects to fiddle with the contents of the first aid kid.

“I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“It’s been a long time.” Sam shrugs. “But thank you.”

“You could talk about him if you wanted. With me.”

“I could. But I don’t much feel like thinking about him right now. I’m okay with looking at what’s in front of me.”

Sam reaches out and tucks a strand of Bucky’s hair behind his ear. Sam’s fingers are warm where they brush against his face. His fingers move from Bucky’s hair to trailing down his neck. They stop right above his collar bone, fingertips warm through Bucky’s shirt. Bucky swallows and then readjusts his body. He feels overwhelmed with the touch, it’s so gentle. Sam is always gentle with him. He moves away a little. He’s afraid he might do something very embarrassing like cry. He starts trying to find his cigarettes but they’re across the room in a discarded jacket.

“I don’t understand it,” Bucky mutters.

“Understand what?”

“Why people keep being so kind to me.” He chews on his bottom lip. He gets up and grabs the cigarettes.

“Because you’re a good person.” Sam is smiling like he’s amused. Bucky lights a cigarette and starts to feel a little better. “Hey, you ever start thinking about getting a gaming system? I can’t spend all my time here looking at knitting patterns.

“I don’t think that video games are for me. I’ve done most of the crazy stuff in all those shooter games. I like music and books and knitting.”

“You really are a hundred years old.”

He can’t sleep for the life of him. He’s back to sleeping in the closet, despite the fact that he’s been back in Brooklyn several months now. He doesn’t like the bed. He hadn’t had the heart to tell Sam.

He folds up his limbs and makes his way out of the closet, pushing the five shirts he owns out his way as he stands. He dresses, putting on his black jeans with the hole in the knee and his combat boots. He carries parts of the soldier with him because he’s still the soldier. Little habits. Like the boots, like the all black outfits, like the long hair. The way he fucking moves through New York to Sam’s apartment without being seen by anyone. Of all the parts of him that come from the soldier, the arm is the part that bothers him the least.

Sam has a security system set in place, but Bucky also has the passcode that Sam gave him when he first got back. He hasn’t used it yet, but it works fine. It’s two am and Bucky wanders into Sam’s kitchen.

The yellow and white walls are an immediate comfort. Bucky touches the framed photo of the water color painting Sam’s mother did for his twenty second birthday. It’s a lily starting to bloom.

Bucky loves Sam’s apartment because it’s Sam’s, but also because it actually feels like a home. He doesn’t know how to make his own apartment feel like his own, though God knows he’s trying. He’s been putting flowers out and painted a blue accent wall. He doesn’t know how he feels about it.

Bucky sits down in the dark on Sam’s couch. He watches the clock tick softly on the wall above the TV.

A half hour passes and Sam walks out in shorts and a t-shirt. He walks right past Bucky. Bucky smiles. Sam is half asleep and he’s moving through the darkness. Bucky stays silent and watches.

Sam fills a glass with ice and pours himself water. He sighs and then curses under his breath. He had a bad dream.

Bucky shifts on the couch. He is still silent, but he wants to give himself away.

Sam walks with his water back to his bedroom but then stops and turns. He inhales sharply and then flicks on the light.

“Fuck Barnes. Shit.”

“Hey.”

“Can’t you use the phone like a normal human being?”

Bucky laughs but doesn’t have it in him to give Sam a quip back. He stares at his feet for a bit and then makes himself look at Sam. Sam is probably the only person who knows him at all. He swallows hard. He doesn’t feel like falling apart at the moment.

“Oh,” Sam says, all soft and awful. He sits down next to Bucky. “What is it Bucky?”

Bucky nods. He lets out another little laugh, starting to sound crazy. Sam said his name. That’s him.

“I used to think about burning my uniform a lot. Back during that first war. In 1944. I wanted to burn that uniform. Does that make me a coward?”

“No. It makes you human.”

“Hm.”

Sam puts a hand on Bucky’s thigh and squeezes. “Why don’t you stay the night.”

It’s not a question. He’s telling Bucky that he’s going to stay. Bucky must look really bad. He feels pretty bad. He pictures kissing Sam just because. Just to feel something. Just because he’s been thinking about it a lot lately.

His flesh hand shakes. His whole body might be shaking. “Yeah,” he whispers. “Okay.”

“Bucky.” Sam speaks firmly. Sam squeezes the back of Bucky’s neck. He runs a hand through Bucky’s hair. “Just lay down, okay?”

Bucky nods. He curls up on the couch and rests his feet against Sam’s thigh. He shuts his eyes. Sam pulls a blanket over Bucky’s back and leaves the water glass on the floor next to the couch. When Sam turns out the light and leaves Bucky drinks from it, seeing the mark Sam’s lip had made on the glass. The blanket smells like Sam. Bucky pulls it over his head and breathes deeply. He falls asleep.

Bucky wakes up to the sound of a blender. He curses and rolls over. Sam comes out of the kitchen drinking a smoothie. It’s probably filled with fucking kale.

Sam sits on the floor so that he’s eye level with Bucky.

“You wanna talk about it?”

“Not if you don’t.”

“I’m not the one who broke into my friend’s house in the middle of the night.”

“I’m not the one whose nightmares woke me up. At least not last night,” Bucky says into the couch cushions.

“Fine. So I had a couple nightmares that didn’t sit too well last night.”

“What was it this time?”

Sam averts his eyes for a moment. When his gaze returns it’s unsettling. “They involved you actually.”

“Oh.” Bucky shuts his eyes and pushes his face even farther into the sofa.

“Not like that dumbass. Our first mission. When I heard your nose crack and your face came back all bloody.”

Bucky makes himself sit up and push the hair out of his eyes. He feels like crying. Sam looks up at him from the floor, waiting.

“I healed up just fine.” Bucky knows what Sam is really waiting for though. “I don’t think I miss whoever I was before, I just miss the _knowing_.” Bucky shrugs. “Sorry I broke in. But in my defense, you gave me the passcode.”

Sam laughs. He looks down at the green sludge in his cup. “How do you feel about beer or breakfast?”

“Fuck that sounds good,” Bucky mutters.

They spend the late morning drinking and continue to do so well into the evening. Bucky tries to explain how he doesn’t know if he can do more missions with Sam. Sam says he understands. Bucky tries to articulate how he’s pretty sure that Sam is the only person he’s never faked emotions for, but he isn’t sure he does a very good job of it.

By the time the evening rolls around, they’re both fairly drunk. Sam brought out the bottle of whiskey and had poured them each several shots throughout the evening. Bucky takes a drink from his beer bottle as the summer breeze cools his face. He has a cigarette in his metal hand and he leans over the railing of Sam’s balcony. He likes New York with Sam next to him.

Sam’s skin shines blue and purple in the darkness, only the lights from other buildings aiding Bucky in seeing the outlines of Sam’s face. They are elbow to elbow. Bucky isn’t really sure how they’ve gotten here over the last several months. He looks to Sam and can see the barest hint of a smile starting to form. He thinks Sam is probably his best friend. It frightens him, but in his drunken stupor he thinks he is probably in love with Sam.

“Where you at Barnes?”

“I’m right here.” Bucky puts his cigarette to his lips and looks out at the city. He’s still in Brooklyn a hundred years later. Sometimes he can make believe he never left.

“You have to cut that shit out,” Sam says, pointing at the cigarette. He’s done it numerous times but he says it softly.

“I’m a super soldier, they can’t possibly do that much damage.”

“They still smell awful.”

“I was tortured and brainwashed for seventy years,” Bucky insists. “Let an old man have his luxuries.”

“You can’t use that excuse for everything.”

“Sure I can,” Bucky says, but puts his cigarette out nonetheless.

“I should probably head in soon. I’ve definitely had too much to drink,” Sam says, laughing a little. He runs a hand down the back of his head, and Bucky can see that he really is tired.

“Okay.”

“You gonna stay up out here?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, I’ll leave the light on.”

Sam turns to go in, and Bucky grabs his wrist.

Sam cocks an eyebrow. “What’s up Barnes?”

Bucky lets out a long breath and then pulls Sam closer. He tucks his nose against Sam’s cheek to give him an out if he wants it.

Sam doesn’t move away.

Bucky kisses Sam. It’s a simple thing. Sam inhales sharply and then kisses back, and heat shoots down Bucky’s spine.

“I kept wondering,” Sam says, voice low and sweet as anything against Bucky’s lips.

“You didn’t make a move,” Bucky tries to explain, but Sam shakes his head.

“I _did_ make a move. I went to touch you and you retracted like a deer caught in the headlights.”

“I didn’t want to mess anything up,” Bucky says, already sick of all this talking. He wants to go back to kissing.

“You’ve been messing shit up for me since the moment I met you. You tore the steering wheel out of my car and everything.” Sam laughs as he says it, and then pulls away a little to look Bucky in the eye. “So you do want this?”

“Very much, yes please,” Bucky says, and leans forward again. He kisses Sam again, longer this time, and he whimpers a little when Sam runs a hand down his jaw.

“Okay,” says Sam, and Bucky can hear the smile in his voice.

“Okay,” Bucky parrots, just needing to get on with it. He feels close to falling apart.

“Okay.”

Sam wraps his arms around Bucky’s waist and kisses him hard. _Finally, _Bucky thinks, and kisses back so hard their teeth mash together.

They fall into the apartment, both so eager they’re nearly tripping over each other’s feet.

Bucky falls hard against Sam’s yellow kitchen wall and pulls Sam closer and closer and closer until he thinks they both might suffocate. The record that Sam had put a while ago is still playing, and Bucky can hardly feel his cheeks from too much whiskey. His body feels all ablaze. He pictures himself as a newly lit match. Sam moans, deep and long, and Bucky thinks he might be dead, for real and true this time.

Bucky bites down on Sam’s lower lip, and Sam pulls him up off the wall and leads them both down the hallway. They make it about halfway to the bedroom before Bucky pushes Sam against the wall and he’d be embarrassed if he had any sense left, but he grinds up against Sam, feeling giddy and wild.

“Watch it,” Sam says, all breathless, laughing and straightening a framed photo near his right shoulder.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters as he’s thrown against the other wall, and laughs when he thinks to himself _So two superheroes try to fuck in a too small apartment. _Maybe he’ll think of a punch line later.

Sam deepens the kiss and runs a hand down Bucky’s side. He kisses Bucky’s neck, and Bucky lets out a high pitched moan.

“Jesus Barnes, the mouth on you.”

“Sorry,” Bucky repeats, and tries to get a hold of himself.

“No, don’t be sorry. I like it,” Sam clarifies, and to show him, starts to suck a mark on Bucky’s pulse point. It’s all far too much and Bucky pushes himself up off the wall and grabs Sam by his shirt collar, leading them both into the bedroom.

It isn’t until they’re both undressed, and Sam has pulled Bucky’s hair down out of its band that they catch a breath. Bucky is under Sam, whining at Sam to hurry up, when Sam says, “Look at me.”

So Bucky does. He breathes heavy and tries to catch his breath, all sick with want, feeling like his life is passing him by so quickly. Who else in the world has gotten to waste seventy years and not aged a day?

Sam’s eyes are warm and his smile is even warmer. He runs a thumb over Bucky’s cheekbone. “Are you good?”

Bucky takes Sam’s hand in his own. He kisses the palm and tries to even his breathing out. He nods. “I’m good.”

Sam pushes inside Bucky, and when Bucky digs the fingers of both flesh and metal hands into Sam’s back, he hopes it isn’t too much. If it is, Sam makes no mention of it.

“Bucky, baby, you feel so good,” Sam whispers. Bucky is fairly sure that Sam has only called him by his first name a handful of times, and hearing it only makes him grip Sam tighter. Bucky needs and wants more than he can say and when he switches positions so that he can ride Sam, Sam lets out a soft surprised noise from the pillow.

Bucky pushes the hair away from his face and then throws his head back, unable to hold back any longer.

“Aren’t you a fuckin’ sight?” Sam says, but pushes himself up to a sitting position so that he can hold Bucky as he rides him.

At one point Sam whispers, “Your mouth, baby, you sound so sweet,” and Bucky is only vaguely aware of the sounds escaping his throat. He can’t help it, he only knows that he feels unhinged knowing that Sam _knows_ him, and still wants him, and is touching him in all sorts of incredible ways.

Neither of them lasts long after that, and Bucky collapses onto Sam’s shoulder, exhausted.

They lay next to each other, their breathing evening out. Bucky stares at the ceiling, too afraid to turn over to look at Sam. He’s more nervous now than he was kissing him an hour ago.

“I’m not…thinking too hard about this, that was really good, right?” Sam finally says. He’s shifted over to look at Bucky, and Bucky forces himself to turn his head. Sam is smiling, but still looking hesitant.

Bucky swallows and nods. “You’re right.” Bucky lets out a shaky breath and then smiles. The smile turns into a laugh and then they’re both laughing, loud and full and bright. “I didn’t wanna say anything. I was afraid it was just me.”

“No,” says Sam. “Definitely not.” Sam pauses and bites the inside of his cheek. When he speaks again, his voice is softer. “I really, _really_ like you Bucky.”

Bucky smiles real wide and then, feeling sheepish, hides his head in the pillow.

“_Now _you’re gonna get shy on me?!” Sam teases. “After what you just did to me, you’re really gonna lay there and blush because I said I really like you?”

“Can’t help it,” Bucky mumbles into the pillow. He reaches out and puts his metal hand on Sam’s bicep. He runs his fingers down Sam’s arm and tries to articulate how he feels about him. He tries to get out that Sam is the only one who really knows him, and that his heart is beautiful, the most beautiful that Bucky’s ever known. Instead it all gets stuck in his throat. All he can do is curl his body closer to Sam’s and holds him.

Later, Bucky will make fun of Sam for calling him baby. _Am I your sweet baby Sam? Is that my name now? _And Sam will give it right back. _You are when you sound like _that_, are you kidding?!_

Later, Bucky will spend hours telling Sam about the first war. He will spend hours explaining that he was just a kid, and then his life was stolen. He will explain how he feels alive right now for the very first time.

Later, Bucky will confirm to himself that he’s hopelessly in love.

The timer on the oven goes off and before Sam gets up off the couch he leans into Bucky and kisses him softly. When he pulls away Bucky smiles and lets the words fall out of his mouth.

“I love you.”

Sam keeps his mouth shut but his mouth pulls up to the left into a knowing smile. He leans over and kisses Bucky’s forehead. He gets up off the sofa and goes to the kitchen to finish dinner. Bucky doesn’t mind that he doesn’t say it back. He hadn’t expected him to. But he’s glad he’s said it. He feels relief flow out of every part of him as he touches his forehead where Sam had kissed him just a few seconds previous. Bucky shuts his eyes and smiles, and then collapses into the couch cushions, hiding his face in the right corner, unable to stop smiling.

Bucky wakes a few weeks later, in the middle of the night to Sam curling an arm around his waist and pushing his nose into Bucky’s hair. Bucky sighs, content.

“Hi,” Bucky whispers in the darkness. Sam kisses his neck.

“Hey,” Sam whispers back. “I love you a lot, you know that right?”

“Oh.”

Sam kisses his shoulder. “I love you Bucky.”

Bucky turns to face Sam. He runs his thumb over Sam’s cheekbone and feels a lump forming in his throat.

“You know, I’ve never had this before.”

“Had what?”

“Somethin’ like this, where I love someone and they love me back. Where someone knows me. Somethin’ good for me. Somethin’ healthy.”

“Oh, baby,” Sam says. “God I hate that. That no one showed you how good you are.”

Bucky tries to shrug it off, like it’s no big deal, but can’t quite manage it. He wraps himself around Sam’s body and holds on for dear life.

Sam kisses Bucky in the soft darkness. He holds him through the night. Bucky is warm and desired, and in one singular place.

_You are anonymous  
I am a concrete wall_

Smoke Signals, Phoebe Bridgers

**Author's Note:**

> anyway, sam wilson is the love of my life
> 
> there's a playlist for this fic, if you are interested let me know :)
> 
> follow for more gay bucky content @ dykecrowleys on tumblr.


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